


Mistakes

by JulyStorms



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 20:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2442827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulyStorms/pseuds/JulyStorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first mistake he makes is asking her to go drinking with the squad—most of them, anyway; Henning’s on furlough for the week, but Nanaba and Mike are going, and for some reason he thinks that makes it safe, the other two bein’ there. Like maybe having Nanaba’s grounded personality there with Mike’s calm one will keep anything stupid from happening when both he and Lynne’ve had too much to drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll be using the English spellings in this story for consistency’s sake. Lynne’s personality is based somewhat loosely off of [Parisayophiel’s](http://parisayophiel.tumblr.com) interpretation. Lengthier notes can be found on [Tumblr](http://julystorms.tumblr.com/post/99798436342/mistakes-a-gelgar-lynne-fic-by-july). Feedback would be great as always.
> 
> Update: Glitch drew me a lovely fanart of this story, which you can find [here](http://julystorms.tumblr.com/post/106743097037/more-goodies-from-glitchikinnsblog-a-moblit) (it's the second picture).

There’s something between them—a sort of connection, maybe, or an attraction, though Gelgar has no idea what it is about him that Lynne would find herself attracted to. He knows exactly what it is about her that he finds attractive: she keeps him on his toes, and that’s his favorite thing about her, really, though he always talks about it like it’s a bad thing, like it’s one of her worst qualities, like she’s troublesome and he’s merely putting up with her for the sake of keeping peace in the squad.

That’s not it at all, though. He doesn’t think he’s in love with her, but he likes her—thinks she’s pretty and, while she’s not the smartest person he knows, she’s got wit, and he can’t help but like a person who can make him laugh even when he’s sick of the world he lives in.

The first mistake he makes is asking her to go drinking with the squad—most of them, anyway; Henning’s on furlough for the week, but Nanaba and Mike are going, and for some reason he thinks that makes it safe, the other two bein’ there. Like maybe having Nanaba’s grounded personality there with Mike’s calm one will keep anything stupid from happening when both he and Lynne’ve had too much to drink.

They walk to the nearest tavern as a group, and the idea seems sound. Nanaba and Mike engage Lynne in conversation and he listens with half an ear. It’s a mid-October day and the air is chilly and they’re all wearing civilian clothes for the first time in a while; it’s nice to be able to put aside their identities as soldiers if only for an afternoon. Lynne looks nice—she doesn’t own anything fancy, but her hair’s tied back neatly and she’s wearing a long skirt and a blouse that looks as if she’d ironed it just for the occasion.

When they’re nearly to their destination, some hole-in-the-wall location that serves decent drinks for a decent price and is generally safe from both rowdy barfights and snotty soldiers stationed with the Garrison or Military Police, Lynne links her arm through his and he can smell her perfume then, something that reminds him of wildflowers and rain.

She tells him that she demands a proper escort, and says, “I suppose _you’ll_ have to do,” and he’s not sure if she’s flirting or if she’s being silly or what anything she says means; she always manages to confuse him like this—with actions that she never explains, actions that he’s afraid to interpret, both for fear of being wrong _and_ of being right.

But she’s smiling when she says it, so he tentatively decides it’s a joke. “Sure,” he says, curling his arm a little so that it looks more like a proper way to lead an escort, “but I ain’t carryin’ you home if you get drunk.” He doesn’t pull her closer when he says it, though the urge strikes him when he can feel her fingers digging lightly into the fabric of his shirt at the inside of his elbow.

She calls him stupid, and then he’s laughing, and before he knows it they’re inside the tavern, and Lynne’s dragging him toward a table next to the window where she can see passersby to make up stories about them to entertain the group.

Gelgar intends to nurse just a few drinks over the course of the evening, but it’s easy to lose track, and that’s his second mistake. Part of the blame he places on Nanaba and Mike, for being good company, but the rest of the blame he takes himself; half of him doesn’t want to drink because he’s afraid of the stupid things he’ll end up saying or doing if he goes just a little too far, but the rest of him needs the alcohol to deal with Lynne sitting next to him; she laughs a lot and smiles his way and leans against him, and she touches him too much—just stupid little things, like her hand on his arm. Twice she steals a drink from his bottle.

And he thinks that if he concentrates on drinking he won’t try to think about what those little things mean—or if they mean anything at all.

He’s never cared much for the heart/mind dichotomy, but now it makes sense to him; his heart wants them to mean something, but his mind balks at the thought like a horse at the edge of a creek swollen from spring rain.

Jumping is too scary and he’s nothing but a goddamn coward when his roots are exposed.

The evening begins to wind down and somehow, for some reason, when he returns from taking a piss, Nanaba and Mike are gone, and Lynne’s sitting at their table alone, fingers twisting in her skirt like she’s nervous or some shit, which doesn’t make sense to him, because she’s always been so bold.

His first thought is that she’s unhappy that she’s been left with him, so he sits down beside her—flops down, really, after the drinks he’s had—and he raises his bottle to his lips and drains the remains. Then he says, “I see the others’ve abandoned you, left you here with me.”

And he doesn’t think for even a _second_ that Lynne might have had anything to do with it, so when she says, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, “Wellllll, Nana was getting sleepy, so I told them to go ahead,” he’s surprised.

“Huh,” is all he says, though, and tries to drink the rest of his beer or whatever-it-is, but it’s already gone.

He can’t really think overmuch about it.

“Do you wanna go now, or do you wanna stay for another round?” he asks.

“Are you paying?” she asks, and he knows it’s an imitation of him, but he doesn’t care.

“Sure,” is his answer. “Why not?”

So they sit there and have another drink each and he knows it’s a bad idea to stay longer, to stay later, because he’s noticing little things about her that he’s never really thought about before, like a little freckle on the back of her earlobe, like the texture of her hair, like the smell of her perfume, which he can still somehow smell mixed in with the boozy, smoky air of the building.

Lynne spends most of the time looking out of the window, but sometimes she touches his arm, sometimes she leans back against him, sometimes she laughs and points and says something like, “That guy looks like he’s really on a mission, huh?” and she’ll imitate the guy’s expression from the street; it’s never quite right but it always looks funny, and it always makes him laugh.

When he wants to kiss her, wants to pull her into his lap to see how she fits there, he knows they’ve gotta get home, where he won’t be tempted to do or say anything stupid, because he’ll drop her off at her room and then flee to his own, if he even bothers to do that; the more likely scenario is that he’ll split off at the end of the corridor and continue to his room and leave her to find her own way back to hers, because the sooner she’s out of his sight, the sooner he can pretend he doesn’t want her—not like that, anyway.

They leave in a bit of a hurry, with Lynne hurriedly finishing the last of her drink and stumbling after him.

She grabs his arm again, this time too tightly, and she’s too close, and they walk halfway back to HQ like that, with her practically glued to his side, chattering on about something-or-another; he finds it hard to concentrate with her so close.

If he were completely sober he might have offered to carry her despite his earlier claim that he would do no such thing, but as he is now, with at least one too many drinks pumping through him, he’s pretty sure he’d be loath to put her back down again.

Lynne eventually stops talking, but the lack of words mean that he can concentrate only on her closeness, now, on the top of her head where her hair, tied up so nicely earlier that night, is starting to tumble down from the ribbon that holds it in place, on the feeling of her warmth against his side, on the fact that he really does like her, far more than he should. There’s no denying it like this; she makes him feel things he never thought he’d let himself feel again. It’s staring down at the top of her head walking back to HQ together that the fear disappears, and he only feels relief in the realization that he is simply human.

She grins when he pulls her closer, when he says she looks cold, and they walk the rest of the way back to HQ looking like a pair of lovers instead of two sorta drunk and very stupid friends.

HQ is all but deserted when they get back; a lot of people are out on furlough and those who aren’t, well, they’re already asleep or in their rooms. Gelgar walks with Lynne to the corridor where they should split off, but something happens or nothing happens and the next thing he knows they’re standing together in front of his room, and he’s confused and the fear’s not back, but his brain’s working, trying to. He says, voice too loud in his own ears, “You should go to your own room.”

“Why?” is Lynne’s response, and he’s not sure what it means until she adds, smiling at him, “Henning’s on furlough, stupid.”

Of course; he remembers that. So he lets her into the room, heads immediately over to his bed, and doesn’t bother to light a candle or anything. With the door closed the room’s almost completely dark. He forgets, or maybe he doesn’t care anymore, about the rational reasons he shouldn’t let Lynne into his room in the evening after they’ve both been drinking.

She sits beside him on the bed and fidgets again, fingers twisting in the fabric of her skirt. He wants her to stop because he doesn’t understand it, and puts his hand over hers. There’s a long pause, and then she takes a deep breath, lets it out, and says, “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised by her question. She’s sitting on his bed with him, after all. But he doesn’t know how to answer the question, and all that comes out of his mouth is a hesitant, “I—“

“I’ve waited long enough, haven’t I?” she asks him, and when he looks at her face, what he can see of it in the dim light coming through the window, anyway, she’s pouting at him.

“You really want me to?” It’s hard for him to believe it’s something she actually wants—or maybe it’s so easy to believe that it almost doesn’t feel real.

“ _Duh_ ,” she says far too loudly in the room, and rolls her eyes.

That’s when he kisses her, and it’s kind of clumsy at first, because he’s still a little drunk even after the walk back to HQ, and it’s been a long time since he’s tried it, and she’s still sitting beside him on the bed which makes the angle weird. But he tries, and she laughs when their noses bump and it hurts a bit, and then he’s laughing and he suddenly doesn’t care about anything in the world but her.

The third mistake Gelgar makes is having sex with Lynne when they’re both a bit too drunk to be making a decision like that. It doesn’t feel like a mistake, though; it feels perfect—all of it.

After he kisses her she finds her way into his lap and they pick right back up on the kissing, and when her hands start wandering he lets his do the same thing, first up into her hair, which he loosens from its ribbon; he stays there too long, almost so distracted by the feel of her hair through his fingers that he can’t concentrate on kissing her, though she doesn’t seem to mind.

At this point the possibility exists that they’re both just horny and looking for some kind of relief, some kind of mutually beneficial rendezvous, but he doesn’t consider it. He considers only the feel of her pressed against him, the smell of her perfume when he kisses her neck, and the sound of her voice, loud in his ear when he takes her earlobe in his mouth and runs his tongue over that silly little freckle on the back of it.

Gelgar had always assumed, in rare moments when he let himself think about such things, that anything between he and Lynne would be fast and fiery and then over with, but they move comparatively slow despite Lynne’s impatience, which he only realizes when she keeps shifting in his lap to feel him against her.

“Stoppit,” he groans, and his fingers dig into her hips to hold her still.

She laughs at him, then, or maybe just in general—it’s more of a giggle, really, high and breathy like she’s having fun.

That means more to him than he’ll ever admit to even himself, even though it’s probably stupid, even though he’s pretty sure other guys don’t think about shit like that when they’ve got a pretty girl straddling their lap.

“It’d better be worth the wait,” she tells him.

His response is to move his hands from her hips to her ribs; he digs his fingers in and says, “ _Duh_ ,” and it makes her laugh—fully this time. When she leans her head against his shoulder and squirms, he can feel the vibrations of her voice against his chest.

He’s never spent so much time smiling, sober or drunk. It’s a welcome change.

He kisses her hair until she looks back up at him, and then he kisses her mouth, almost ridiculously pleased that she is who she is.

She responds to everything with a surprising amount of enthusiasm he’s not sure can be entirely blamed on the drinks she’s had, and that fact warms him more than her laughter does.

Even when she’s relieved him of his shirt and he’s working on hers with fingers that feel a little too clumsy to undo the tiny, delicate buttons of her blouse, she pulls him back to her for kisses. He’s pretty sure this means she likes kisses, though a small part of him wonders if maybe she’s trying to keep his attention off of her body—as if he’d ever have anything negative to say about it.

She bites his tongue, once, in her enthusiasm, and the startled sound he makes sets her off again, laughing so hard this time that it makes him laugh, too.

“Geesh,” he says, and kisses her forehead before he undoes the last button on her blouse and slides the material from her shoulders.

She helps him with her brassiere as if she’s perfectly aware he’s too dumb to figure out how to get it off, and then she asks, almost hesitantly, “So, what do you think, huh?”

And he thinks, but also says aloud, “Can’t believe you’d ask a dumb question like that; you fishin’ for compliments at a time like this?”

She smacks his arm, and he laughs, and even in the dim lighting he can tell that her face is flushed; when he glances down he realizes the flush spreads down her neck and across her chest, and he kisses her, the softest he’s probably ever dared to kiss anyone before.

Lynne sighs into it, her fingers running back through his hair in the direction he’s always combed it, and when he pulls away from her mouth and goes back to her neck, kissing down to her collarbone, she says, “You know, I’ve always kind of wanted to just…” And she runs her hands back through his hair the wrong way.

Normally he’d snap at her for it, but here in the near-darkness, with her tilting her head back so that he has room to kiss down her collarbone, it feels kind of intimate, and it makes him smile against the pulse point in her neck before he sucks lightly at the skin there.

Predictably, Lynne gets impatient with him again and rocks into him, sighing pleasantly when it pulls a sound out of his mouth that is absorbed by her skin. He grabs her hips again to hold her still, rubbing his thumbs over the bones there—and they’re not as sharp as he expected them to be.

“Gonna dump you offa my lap if you don’t stop that,” he tells her, and runs his tongue over a scar on her right shoulder that he doesn’t know the story behind.

“No you won’t,” she taunts, and shrieks with laughter when he actually follows through with it and pulls her off of his lap, dumping her on his bed instead. She’s still laughing when he leans over her and kisses her—and she grins up at him and says, “You’re the worst,” when he pulls away and presses his forehead against hers, his hair falling in his face now.

“You ruined my hair,” he tells her. “It’s payback for makin’ it look bad.”

She reaches up to touch it and messes it up again, even worse this time. “I like it, though,” she says, and that sends a jolt of feeling through him that he didn’t expect to feel tonight, one that makes him swallow hard, that makes him bury his face in the crook of her neck. He’s still there when she says, “Gelgar,” and he’s glad because that makes him feel something, too—too much, really. It’s almost overwhelming.

“Yeah?” he asks, kissing behind her ear so that she won’t think he’s hiding there like some kinda idiot.

“Are you going to pay attention to the girls or did I take that bra off for nothing?”

“Hmm, I dunno. Should I?” He moves down her neck and nips at her collarbone teasingly before he finally presses an open-mouthed kiss against her chest over her heart—like a goddamned sap, or a fool; in this case, it turns out he’s both. He’s pleased to feel her heartbeat racing.

She huffs, either at his stupid question or because he’s so close but also so far. “They’re my best physical feature,” she tells him.

“No they’re not.” His reply comes so quickly it startles both of them, but he pulls back to look at her—really look at her, which is hard since it’s nearly dark, but he can see well enough: the flush still flaming down her neck and chest, the expression on her face that still looks surprised. He backpedals, sort of: “I mean, they’re great, but I like other things better.”

She licks her lips, and he wonders if he’s just made her nervous, if he’s said too much, if now she knows that there are feelings mixed into this from his end, even though he’s tried desperately to keep them out of it.

“Yeah?” she asks.

“Yeah. I like your hair a lot—and your face. I mean, I know you’ve heard about a thousand times that you’ve got great eyes, but—“

“No,” she whispers, her voice sounding odd, though her expression still looks a bit startled. “Nobody’s ever said that to me before.”

And for a moment he’s afraid that he’s ruined everything, that he’s scared her and now she’s not gonna want anything to do with him; hell, she’ll probably petition Mike to make sure she never has to work with him again. But she grins and hugs his neck and says, “Thank you,” like it really does mean something to her that he’s said something so dumb.

And for a moment he wonders about it, wonders if maybe some guy once told her something horrible like her tits were the best thing she had going for her, and the thought upsets him because that kinda shit ain’t true at all—hell, that’s not the sort of thing that ought to be said to anyone.

“Just bein’ truthful,” he manages to say, but that makes her hug him harder.

When she finally lets him go, she’s grinning even though her eyes look a little wet, and she wriggles beneath him, wrapping one leg around his waist clumsily to pull him down closer to her. “You said it was gonna be worth the wait,” she tells him, smile widening even further, because she can’t quite get the words out without laughing. “I’m waiting!”

He doesn’t really need any more encouragement from her. It’s true that she has great breasts—they’re large and they’re well-shaped, but the best part of them really is the sound she makes when he closes his mouth around her nipple. She’s the opposite of quiet, he’s learning, and he has to take his hand away from her other breast twice to cover her mouth so that she doesn’t wake half the barracks up and get both of them into big trouble. If it weren’t for that—he’d let her be as loud as she wanted and he’d just be proud of making her act like that, but they can’t afford to get in trouble, and the vibration of her voice against his hand tells him all he needs to know about how he’s doing.

Just as he decides he could probably spend the rest of the night doing this to her, she gets impatient again and pushes him off of her, kissing him hard when he’s beside her in the narrow bed.

“I’m taking this off,” she murmurs against the corner of his mouth, and pulls back to kick her shoes off and wriggle out of her skirt. He watches her like a dope, and when her skirt hits the ground she lies down on her side next to him and grins. “So,” she starts slowly, hooking a leg over his, “are you going to free yourself or are you waiting for me to do it?”

Gelgar’s never been good at these sorts of things, but Lynne has a way of making him want to flirt. Still, the words get stuck in his throat, and all he can say is, “What do you think?”

She presses herself against him, making him sigh out heavily through his nose, and says, “Well, I think you _want_ to free yourself, but if you need a little help… Well, I won’t mind.” Her fingers are already working at his belt, loosening it. It only takes her a few seconds to slide it off and he hears it hit the floor—not even on his side of the room. “Better hurry up,” she adds, breath hitching as she fumbles with his pants, trying to undo them herself. “It’s not nice to keep a lady waiting.”

Well, he has dragged this out long enough, he decides, and pulls away to rid himself of his pants, which are definitely too restrictive at this point. He’s barely beside her again for a half-second before she’s reaching for him, grabbing his erection through his underwear.

“ _Goddammit_ , Lynne,” he groans, and has to stop himself from thrusting into her hand like an idiot teenager.

“What?” she asks, hand teasing him as much as her words. “I just wanted to see.”

“That’s feelin’, not _seein_ ’,” he manages to complain.

“Fine,” she agrees. “I was _feeling_ to see if you were ready, and I see you _are_.”

Before he can stop himself, he asks, “What about you?”

She lets go of him then, and he can breathe again, but she kisses his cheek and rolls over onto her back, arms crossed behind her head, a grin on her face that makes him want to laugh. “I don’t know,” she says, and it’s obviously a lie. “I guess you’ll have to check for me!”

“Yeah?” he asks, fingers tracing the skin of her hip just above the material of her underwear.

“Mmmhm.” She looks so pleased with herself that he wants to kiss the hell outta her, but she’s given him instructions and he’s happy to follow those, too—but he ain’t gonna do anything without teasing her a bit, first.

His fingers hook around the sides of her underwear, and he slowly pulls them off, watching her face the whole time; she looks so expectant he almost feels bad, but he lifts one of her legs, ducks beneath it, and lowers his head to press kisses down her stomach. When he gets to her bellybutton, instead of kissing it or licking it or doing something that might be considered normal or sexy, he gives her a big fat raspberry, and he is rewarded for his effort by her wriggling madly as she immediately laughs and smacks the top of his head hard.

“What the _hell_ , Gelgar?” she asks, grinning at him afterward like it’s the greatest trick that’s ever been played on her.

“You gotta learn patience,” he explains, but he’s smiling, too.

“I’ve _been_ patient,” she whines. “ _So_ patient. Hurry up and— _oh_.”

The look on her face makes it more than worth it. He strokes her again, pointer and index finger of his right hand skimming lightly against the sides of her clit, which he can tell is firm and damp.

She swallows hard. “So what’s the verdict?” she asks.

He leans over her, and she half sits to meet him in a kiss. “Maybe,” he tells her when he pulls away, and strokes her again.

“Maybe?” she echoes, her voice almost a whine. “Maybe you should check more.”

“You sayin’ I haven’t been thorough enough?” he teases, kissing her again as he lowers his fingers to circle them teasingly around her opening.

She moans impatiently into his mouth and then he almost feels bad for making her wait; he’s not even sure _why_ he’s dragged this out so long, when he always thought that if anything happened between them it’d be twenty minutes of nothing much; maybe he’s just been trying to give her an out all this time, but she doesn’t want an out. She wants _him_ and it’s hard to believe even while intoxicated.

“I have a secret,” she whispers when he pulls away from the kiss.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.” She pulls his head to the side and whispers loudly into his hear: “I’m really wet and I _really_ want you now. Right now.”

Her words send a jolt of desire through him so strong he has to bite back a moan. “Soon,” he assures her, and kisses her face before he pushes one finger into her.

She arches her back in response, and when he looks at her face, she’s biting her lip hard, but still looking at him.

“What are you doing?” he asks, sliding his finger back out again.

She looks annoyed. “I’m trying to be quiet,” she tells him. “You said it was gonna be worth the wait and I’m trusting you, so you’d better not let me down!”

He grins—both at her faith in him and the serious way she attempts to prepare to keep her voice down. “Geesh,” he says, but he can’t wipe the grin off of his face, “you’re so impatient.”

But he indulges her, then, getting both fingers in comfortably before he presses his thumb firmly to her clit. When he starts rubbing circles with his thumb, that’s when her resolve to stay quiet flees, and he has to lift a hand back up to her mouth again to keep her from waking the whole damn hall; she seems grateful for it, though, and holds his hand there with both of her own.

It’s surprisingly easy to get her to come; she’s like a wound spring by this point, all too eager to feel release; he considers stopping just as her muscles start to contract around his fingers, but he can’t tease her like that, now. Besides, he wants to watch her come, wants to watch her shake afterward, the effect of him having made her feel good.

Still a little drunk, he knows it’s a foolish thought, but he keeps his thumb moving on her clit, keeps his fingers curling inside of her until the little after-shocks have faded and she’s smiling lazily against his hand, still holding it tightly to her mouth.

He pulls it away and grins at her. “Worth the wait?” he asks.

“Mmhm,” she replies, and tugs him down to kiss him. “You know what?” she asks, fingers tangling in his hair.

“What?”

“I think I love you.”

And fool that he is, he says, “I love you, too,” because that’s what you’re supposed to say to someone when they say they love you, right? You’re supposed to agree with it. That is his fourth mistake; even though he realizes when he says it that he does mean it, he also knows he should not have said it.

But she laughs, sounding pleased, and says, reaching for his underwear to tug it down, “Now it’s _your_ turn.”

He nods, and helps her get his underwear off, and then she takes him in her hand; he groans into her neck, and she laughs.

“I already told you I want you,” she tells him, hand leaving his dick to rest on his shoulder instead. “I just wanted to touch. Again.”

“You’re awful touchy-feely, aren’t ya?” he teases, but it’s hard to sound normal when she just had her hand wrapped around his dick.

“So’re you,” she fires back at him, but it’s a lazy response and she’s smiling. “You were so busy kissin’ on me you didn’t even notice half of what I was doing to you.”

It’s true. He vaguely remembers her hands on his chest, his arms, his shoulders, and he thinks she grabbed his ass once, though he’s not sure if that’s a memory or his imagination.

“Yeah, well, I like you.”

“And you better get in me,” she tells him, wriggling impatiently beneath him again. “But make sure you pull out before you blow—y’know.”

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, of course.”

He slides into her slowly, though it takes a lot of willpower to keep from burying himself in her right away; she feels good—hot and wet—but the last thing he wants to do is hurt her; not that he’s anything but average, but going too fast before she’s ready is just gonna end badly and he’d rather die than do something like that to her.

But it’s easier than he thought it’d be to get lost in her, and he almost forgets to pull out, almost thrusts hard that final time and spills inside of her—he catches himself and pulls out, coming onto the bed instead with a moan that’s at least half her name.

She sits up to kiss his face, and he rests his head on her shoulder for a second as he tries to get his breath back.

“If you coulda kept going for a few more minutes,” she teases, rubbing his back, “you mighta got me to come again. Might still be able to.”

“That a hint?” he asks, smiling as he pulls back to look at her face.

“Yeah, it’s a hint. _Please_?”

“You’re greedy aren’t you?” But she’s giving him a pleading sort of look, which he absolutely can’t resist, especially when she’s asking nicely and she’s naked in front of him and he feels so very satisfied himself.

“Maybe a little,” she admits, but he’s already sitting down and pulling her into his lap, fingers moving between her legs to start playing with her again. She practically whimpers at his touch this time, maybe a little sore still from coming earlier, or maybe she’s just so tightly wound again she can’t handle it. He doesn’t ask, and she buries her face against his neck.

It takes longer this time to get her to come undone, and she’s awfully wriggly, trying to rub herself against his hand, like he’s not going fast enough or being firm enough. But he takes his time, and this time when she comes, he thinks he hears her cry out his name against his skin.

But he doesn’t ask, doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t do anything but hold her until she’s done shaking, and he knows it’s because he’s feeling sentimental about her now; even when he lets her go, he doesn’t want to. He’s gotta piss, though, and when he asks, she says she does too; he offers to go first so that she has time to clean herself up a bit before she leaves the room. He’s already gotten the top blanket on the bed dirty, after all.

When he comes back, she’s gone; she left the blanket folded neatly in the laundry. He’s suddenly feeling a little too sober, and wonders, for a moment, what exactly it is he’s done, but he pushes the thought out of his mind and pulls on some soft pants and a t-shirt to sleep in, instead.

He’s well settled into bed when she comes back, and he’s surprised to see her; after the first ten minutes he’d thought maybe she wasn’t coming back. But she creeps into the room and moves over to his bureau without saying a damn thing. He watches her pull out one of his shirts and change into it before she climbs into his bed and says, almost defensively,

“You gotta let a woman stay the night after that—it’s only the right thing to do.”

He’s not sure what to say to that except, “’Course,” and he moves over to make room for her, though it’s a tight squeeze. When she’s settled against him, when her breathing is even but she’s not yet asleep, he asks, “You all right?”

Her response is slow and it’s just a whisper: “Yeah.”

He’s not sure what to make of that; maybe Lynne’s just not the sorta person to want to talk after something like that. They’ve both had enough to drink that it isn’t really surprising if she’s tired, so it should make sense that she doesn’t wanna talk, but it still doesn’t feel _right_ to him. It doesn’t feel like her at all. She never shuts up.

But he doesn’t try to make sense of it now, because his head is just a little too fuzzy, yet, and sleep is creeping in on the edges. He sighs, feeling content like this, with Lynne next to him. He puts his arm around her and even kisses the top of her messy hair before sleep claims him.

* * *

 

He wakes in the morning without so much as a headache, and for a long moment, he’s not even sure why he’s awake. But then he hears it—a creak, and he opens his eyes to see Lynne wearing his shirt, picking up her clothes from the floor.

“Hey,” he says without thinking about it first.

It startles her so badly that she drops everything she’s holding and whirls around to face him; the look on her face tells him everything he needs to know, and it hurts.

“You’re leaving,” is the next thing he says, but it’s quieter.

“Well, duh,” she tells him, and laughs, but it’s so fake-sounding it hurts more than the guilty look on her face.

“Why?”

“Don’t—!” She takes a deep breath, but it’s shaky, as if she’s trying to gather the courage to say something that’s not easy for her to say. “I don’t feel well. And—and don’t play games with me, okay? You can just be honest. I prefer it, actually.”

He understands her not feeling well, but the rest doesn’t make an ounce of sense to him. “What are you talking about?”

“Gelgar.” She gathers up her clothes again—slips on her skirt and then takes off his shirt. For some reason, he averts his eyes, and when he realizes that’s stupid because he’d seen everything the night before, she’s already buttoning her blouse. “You don’t have to be such a good guy. Really. I can take care of myself.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ _Last night_ ,” she hisses too loud, and clamps a hand over her mouth. “You remember it, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so. Don’t pretend that meant anything to you.”

“What?” He’s sitting up in alarm almost before he knows it, but he doesn’t get out of bed because Lynne suddenly looks like she’s afraid, and for a moment, he’s struck dumb by the fact that it’s _him_ she’s afraid of. It makes his throat close up.

“Any of it,” she insists, swallowing hard. “It was nice, but it was a huge mistake, and I’m—well, it… It didn’t mean anything, okay? I get it. It meant nothing to you _or to me_. So we’re even and we’re both adults and we can still work together without it being a problem.”

She flees his room before he can even form words, but when his door slams shut after her hurried exit, all of the words he has clamor at once to be heard. Problem is, nobody’s there to hear any of them.

* * *

 

He’s not sure how this misunderstanding managed to happen; she spent most of the night laughing, after all—so where had things gone wrong? He tries imagining being in her place—he tries to decide what he’d have done if they’d had sex on her bed instead and he’d stayed there the night; would he have tried to sneak off while she was sleeping?

He can’t picture himself doing that.

After a few minutes of sitting in his bed trying to figure out what’s happened, he gets up and gets dressed, intent on getting answers sooner rather than later.

He finds Lynne in the mess hall; she’s sitting with Mike and Nanaba, but Mike and Nanaba are talking to one another, and Lynne’s poking at her food looking kind of miserable. He knows there’s no way she feels that bad—at least not physically. There’s more wrong than that, something she’s too afraid to tell him, but he’s gonna get it out of her no matter what it takes, because he’s not okay with the idea of letting the night before, half-drunk mistake or not, end like this, with her running from his room frightened of something.

She almost jumps out of her skin when he appears and grabs her arm; the movement catches Mike and Nanaba’s attention, of course, and all Gelgar says is, “Look, we gotta talk.”

Lynne tries to pull her arm back, but he won’t let it go, and she won’t look at him. She just says, “No,” and tries to pretend he doesn’t exist.

“I’m serious; come on.” He pulls harder on her arm this time, lifting her up out of her seat a bit.

She reacts with anger, which he expected: “Let go and _go away_ , Gelgar!”

It doesn’t phase him, though; it upsets him. “Don’t be stupid,” he tells her. “We need to talk and _we need to talk now_.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Nanaba asks, half out of her seat already, her face looking so conflicted he might have otherwise found the situation kind of humorous. “Gelgar, let her go; are you drunk this early in the morning?”

“What?” he asks, and turns his frustration onto Nanaba instead. “I’m not _drunk_ —I’m upset! This doesn’t concern you, so you should really consider minding your own business!”

“Gelgar.”

It’s Mike, this time, looking calm, though his eyebrows are lowered and it’s clear he’s not happy. Gelgar considers accusing him of unnecessarily defending his precious Nanaba, but holds his tongue; Mike doesn’t deserve that, and he hates disorder within the squad; what’s happening probably looks worse to him than it really is.

“Look,” he says. “This is a matter that concerns me and Lynne, okay? And we need to talk about this _now_ , or one of us is gonna be putting in a request to get moved to another squad—a’ight?”

That makes Mike raise both eyebrows in surprise, and Nanaba gapes at him, the anger fading from her face. “At least get your hand off of her,” she says before she sits back down next to Mike.

Gelgar lets go of Lynne, but says, “C’mon Lynne, it’ll only take a few minutes.”

Her lips stay pressed into a thin line for a long moment, but she eventually gets up and walks outside; he trails behind her until they’re behind the stables, leaning against the building.

“What do you want,” she says as soon as she’s settled, arms crossed over her chest.

It’s not even a question, and he’s baffled yet again as to why she’s so upset with him; he really has no idea what it is he’s done to deserve this.

“I just—we gotta talk about last night, okay? Even though you don’t want to.”

“I already _told_ you…”

“Look, you were laughing and you were smiling and I _thought_ you were having a good time—“

“I was.”

“So what happened to change it?”

Her reply is hesitant, this time. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“No, we need to talk about this, or I’m gonna go to Erwin later today and ask to be transferred somewhere else—you understand? I’m not working with a squadmate who’s _afraid of me_ for reasons I’m not even aware of!”

“I’m not _afraid of you_ ,” she says, looking startled. “What kind of stupid shit is that?”

“You looked scared out of your mind this morning,” he points out, crossing his arms over his chest, too. “You wouldn’t even let me talk!”

“Yeah, because I didn’t wanna hear what you were going to say!”

“And what did you think I was gonna say that was so stupid you didn’t wanna hear it?

She looks away, biting her lip. “It wasn’t something stupid,” she says, after a moment. “It’s just—I know why you’d say it, I just…didn’t want to hear it. Okay?”

“No, it’s not okay, because I still don’t know what it is you thought I was gonna say. Hell, you were acting weird before that, even—when we went to sleep and you weren’t all chatty like usual. At first I thought maybe you were just real tired or somethin’, but nah, you were upset and you just didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You gonna tell me what you were upset about?”

She doesn’t want to answer; that much is obvious, but she eventually takes a deep breath, and he’s pleased—but then she speaks and her voice is too quiet and too wobbly and all she says is, “You didn’t ask me to come back,” but even a dummy like Gelgar can see how much effort it’s taking her to admit that.

The worst part is, he’s not sure what she means. “I didn’t ask you to come back?”

“You ran off to go to the bathroom and left me there by myself to clean up before I went, and you didn’t even, you—“ She stops, unfolds her arms to scrub hard at her face, which has grown wet, and pushes on, her words so wobbly he’s sure she’s about to burst into tears: “You didn’t tell me  you wanted me to come back when I was done!”

“I thought that was implied,” he says, dumbfounded.

“How could I have known that?!”

“I’m not _blamin’_ you!”

“Well, that’s what it sounds like! But I came back anyway—‘cause I promised myself I wasn’t gonna let that shit fly with me ever again!”

“What,” he doesn’t really ask, mouth open.

She sets her jaw, face wet with tears. “I swore I wasn’t gonna let another guy fuck me and then kick me outta his bed before the sun was up—okay? No exceptions—not even for _you_. So I made myself go back and I—and you were already in bed. You weren’t waiting for me or anything! So I said I was staying!”

Gelgar remains speechless for the duration of her rant, and when, at the end, she murmurs a “Goddammit,” and scrubs at her face again, he hands her his handkerchief and stands in front of her like a clueless buffoon.

“Look,” he says, “I didn’t know about those other guys, okay? And they’re all bastards, however many of ‘em there were. I just—I thought it was implied that you were gonna come back, ‘cuz I’d thought you’d had a good time. I mean,” he flails, and finishes lamely, “you laughed.”

“What would you have done if I hadn’t come back?” she asks, softly.

“I would’ve gone to sleep thinking you’d rather sleep in your own bed,” he admits, shrugging helplessly. “Look—did it really mean nothing to you? It’s okay if it didn’t, but—“

“Why do you think I was upset that you didn’t ask me to stay?”

“Well, in my defense, it could’ve been because you didn’t want another bastard tryna use you—treat you like crap. Tell you nice things’n then kick you out like you didn’t mean anything to him. I’m not that kinda guy—I wouldn’t lie to you and, yeah, I…I shouldn’t have said some of what I did—shouldn’t have done some of what I did, either, considering,” he gestures at what’s around them, “our situation. I mean, maybe it was a mistake—all of it. But it was a nice kinda mistake. I mean…it meant something to me.”

“I’m sorry.” She sounds cowed, and that bothers him.

“Look, I said it’s okay if it didn’t mean anything to you.”

“No, it’s not that, I—“ She swallows hard and looks away, picks at her harness. “It did mean something, but I wasn’t going to act on it. I knew it was foolish, but I was feeling pretty good last night, and pretty brave, and it was _fun_ , so I didn’t want to stop—and then I blurted out—well, you know. And I thought, shit, I’ve ruined it, but you rolled with it, and I was sobering up by then, I guess, a little bit, but I didn’t let myself think about it, y’know? Whether or not you meant it or if you’d just said it to get in my pants.”

“I meant it,” he answers automatically, if only because he can’t stand the thought of lying to her, especially not now—and they’ve already slept together, so it’s not like lying about his feelings will do him any good. “So what’re you apologizing for?”

“The whole mistake. I just—you always kind of keep your distance, and I thought, well, we were both a little drunk, and I thought maybe you’d actually… I don’t know what I thought. I guess I wasn’t really thinking at all. You’re hard to read, you know that? You’re always goofing off and changing the subject and I just wanted to know if you returned even a little of—well. I guess I know, now, but I thought it’d be dumb to fall for someone again.”

“Tell me about it,” he mutters, but cracks a smile. “We’re both idiots and we’ve both made the mistake. So…what should we do about it now?”

“It’s already happened; it’s not like we can do anything about it now.”

Gelgar just grins. “I meant about this fascinating bit of new information here—you crushing madly on me for months and not sayin’ a thing about it to anyone.”

“I wasn’t crushing _madly_ ,” she says, hitting his arm; it doesn’t even hurt, which means she’s being silly. It makes his grin grow wider, and her expression softens just a bit. “I really cared about you a lot—even though you’re dumb as hell and a huge pain in the ass half the time.”

“Hey! I can say the same thing about you. Totally against my better judgment.”

“This sounds like a crappy romance novel or something, Gelgar.”

“Whatever. If our situation were different I’d’ve been happy to have fallen for you, but here it’s just—it’s a really bad idea, you know? So that’s what I’m askin’, right? What do you wanna do about this information now?”

Lynne bites the inside of her cheek and looks thoughtful, but finally gives him a shrug. “I—I honestly don’t know. What are our options, exactly?”

“Well this is a bit more complicated since we’re on the same squad together, but I guess we have three plausible options here.” He ticks them off as he speaks them aloud: “We could agree to never speak of it or feelings or anything ever again; we could acknowledge that we did in fact sleep together, and that there are feelings while agreeing not to act on them again; the final option is, of course, to acknowledge everything and continue to act on it because nobody lives very long in the Survey Corps anyway and we might as well have fun while we’re alive.”

He swallows hard when he finishes, looks down at the three fingers extended, and then to her.

“I’m not sure what to do, myself,” he admits. “It’ll be hard to ignore feelings, especially after last night, when we’re in the same squad, but if we make ‘us’ a thing, then, well, someone’s gonna get hurt eventually, ‘cuz we’re not likely to live some kinda happily ever after bullshit kind of life.”

“Someone died on you, huh?” Lynne asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “A long time ago. It doesn’t really hurt anymore, not like it used to, but I’m not keen on feeling like that again. At the same time…when it happened, I was pretty naïve about all this stuff—I wasn’t as aware as I am now, and I just—I guess it was a huge shock when most of our friends died, and on the very next expedition, she didn’t come back.”

“That makes sense,” Lynne says, and digs the toe of her boot into the dead grass. “Look, I’m not gonna die on you—you got that? We’re in the best squad—Captain Levi’s squad is great’n all, but they’re not like us. We always fight as a team, and that’s why we’re all still alive.”

“You sayin’ you wanna date or whatever?”

“That’s what I’m saying.” She smiles but shoulders him gently. “But only if you want to. I know if you get hurt a couple of times, you don’t really want to try again.”

“I’m kinda sick of bein’ a chickenshit,” he admits. “I mean, maybe last night was a mistake, since neither of us went out intending for anything like that to happen, but,” he shrugs, “it’s kind of a happy mistake, right? And it’s true, I guess, that we should all be making the most of whatever time we have instead of bein’ so scared of caring about someone that we ignore what’s right in front of us.”

“And what’s right in front of you?” Lynne asks.

“You.” He doesn’t even think about his answer—doesn’t pretend it’s a joke. He adds, kinda softly, like it’s something he needs to be serious about: “Someone I care a lot for.”

She smiles, her face slowly turning red. “Yeah?” she asks. “Funny coincidence… I’m pretty sure that’s my answer, too.”

He grins, twists his hand in her ponytail and kisses her hard and without warning. She smacks him for it, but she’s laughing.

“I demand a redo; I couldn’t even respond to that, you idiot!”

“Fine, fine,” he says, and this time when he kisses her, it’s soft and it’s slow and she rests her hands on his shoulders and kisses him back like she doesn’t want either of them to ever return to the mess hall.

But they do go back a few minutes later, after he pulls away and she pouts and he kisses her one more time, after he offers her his arm and she takes it, holding it too tightly. This time, it makes him smile.

This time, he’s not thinkin’ about what he’s afraid might happen.

His thoughts are only on her—on the feeling of her fingers at the inside of his elbow, on the color of her hair in the early morning light, on the way her eyes light up when she smiles at him—like he’s done something right to make that happen.


End file.
